You’re crying, love. I can only listen
over my cell phone, feeling your stuttered
breath capture my breath, see your tears glisten
in imagined candlelight. You uttered
something about cherishing my poems,
words swirling around my head like ether,
too enshrined within your pain to see them
beyond you. Your eyes dance through odd-metered
lines, welcoming their window-framed shadows
each time like ghosts they appear before you,
slender spirits of script lying in snow.
You hang up, yet I feel soft residue
of your tears in my tears, fear somehow you’ll
call me fool for crying. But I’m no fool.
Roger Armbrust
January 15, 2010
